Tears
by Tsuru-san
Summary: Sherlock Holmes loves Watson but can’t muster the courage to tell him and possibly bear the pain of rejection. Then, on one lonely night, the great detective confesses his true feelings to his sleeping friend.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: My first Sherlock Holmes fic, and I'm currently rereading the canon so I'm not sure how "true to the book" this can be considered. This also doesn't take place during any specific book/story/whatever. . .  
  
DISCLAIMER: Nothing belongs to me. . . *sigh*  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Sherlock Holmes sat quietly in his favorite chair. A steady drizzle poured down on Baker Street as well as a good portion of London. Therefore, Holmes was quite grateful for the cozy fire blazing in the hearth in front of him. Languidly he spared a glance at the clock on the mantle. It was half-past eleven. //Watson retired over an hour ago//, the detective thought. He turned again to regard the door to his companion's bedroom. Deciding that the absence of any noise signified sleep, Holmes gracefully stood from his red leather chair.  
  
He was still clad in his pants, boots, and starch white shirt. The dancing glow of the firelight played across the sitting room and its occupant, casting eerie shadows over everything. The flickers of light had a particularly exhausting effect on Holmes. They seemed to effortlessly bring out the shadows in his eyes and the ashen pallor of his face, intensifying them a hundred-fold.  
  
True Sherlock's current case was one of iniquity - surely one of the most despicable murder mysteries he'd ever had the misfortune of investigating, but with a little more evidence, Holmes was certain the matter would be cleared up. Tonight it was another affair entirely that left him feeling drained. The source of his sorrow was peacefully dreaming behind the bedroom door he stood in front of. Or rather the source of his sorrow was his feelings for said dreamer.  
  
With practically exaggerated caution, Holmes quietly glided over the maple floorboards and into his companion's room. His leather boots made not even the slightest sound as he tiptoed into the darkened area. However, it was not completely pitch-black within. The constant gleam of streetlights illuminated the bedroom enough so that the detective was able to perceive Watson lying serenely on his bed. The doctor's warm brown eyes were closed, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he recalled their compassionate depths.  
  
Holmes moved a little to the side and gently picked up Watson's overcoat from where it had been placed on a chair. He clutched it to his chest, inhaling the cinnamon and pipe-tobacco scent he associated with his friend. Then the detective turned toward the bed where Watson was sleeping soundly. He paused a moment to catch his balance as a wave of adoration washed over him.  
  
He who had spoken of love only with careless mockery so as to disguise the profoundness of his feelings and his own vulnerability. Holmes drank in the singular beauty of the doctor's sleeping form. It was really a wonder that he had kept his emotions quiet for so long. Oh, but the need to voice them burned like acid into his tongue. The detective took a few ginger steps forward so that he was right beside his friend. If he could not confess the truth to Watson's face, Holmes would whisper it to him as he slept.  
  
"John," Sherlock addressed his slumbering companion faintly, "I know you can't hear me and that it might be catastrophic if you did, but sometimes you worry me so. Joining me in my cases no matter how dangerous. Good God, how I fear for you. You've become such an important part of my life. I love you so much, I don't know what I'd do without you."  
  
Dispiritedly, Holmes clung tighter to Watson's coat, sadly convinced that this was the closest he'd ever get to holding its owner. A few tears slipped from his gray eyes and onto the woolen fabric as they had done on previous nights like this. Despite his great mind, the detective had yet to figure out how Watson would react if he revealed his true colors. There was a small chance that the doctor would return his feelings, or at least tolerate them, but Watson was also a moral man, and if he found out that Holmes harbored such unnatural feelings for him, he would probably leave Baker Street - and possibly London - at once.  
  
Sherlock knew he'd rather die than lose John. Slowly, carefully, he placed his friend's coat back on the chair and silently exited the room. The detective gently closed the bedroom door behind him, strode across the sitting room, and collapsed into his chair. It hurt so much to be with Watson, but - at the same time - it hurt even more to be without. Deep in his aching heart, Holmes re-thought his position until he came to the same conclusion he did every time he allowed his mind to mull over the situation. If he couldn't have Watson as a lover, he'd settle for having him as a friend. Besides, it was better than not having him at all.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please R&R. I'm thinking of continuing this so don't be surprised if there's a part two. 


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